Every night, Brian climbs into bed with a girl he doesn't know, and the new housemmate, Carmichael, is cruel and promiscuous. In a house full of strangers, seven college students struggle to get to know each other. //COMPLETE//

Author's Notes:
I am not one to apologize, but I am truly sorry for this. I am also
truly grateful for your readership. This has been a difficult piece
to wrestle with; I was glad to have company. I will still be working
on it over the summer. Who knows what will happen to the piece by
then. April 22, 2008.

Chapter
Thirty-Two

Rain took off her
helmet, clomping into the house. "We're home!"

Nora skidded into the
kitchen, meeting up with her.

Brian came in with a
few groceries, huffing. "It's hot out there."

"How was it?" Nora
asked impatiently.

"He can't even hold
a doll without fretting," Rain said indifferently, heading into the
hallway.

Nora sputtered. "Really?"

Brian smiled, dropping
off the groceries by the breakfast table. He flexed his hands.
"Pretending to be a father isn't easy."

"I suppose it isn't,"
Nora said, sitting down.

"There were a lot of
single expectant mothers there. I felt… out of place. Rain had to
fend off a pretty bitter one." Brian sat down in a chair adjacent
to her. "I still don't know about any this."

"Even if you're not
going to be using it any time soon, it'll still be a good skill to
have around." She looked at the table top. "It gives you a
healthy, I'm-really-responsible glow."

"I guess it does. Even when she hasn't replied, I still feel… sort of—excited."

Nora nodded. She had
been thinking about Louisa's non-replying self for weeks now. What
kind of girl does that? Why would Brian even subject himself to
this? She wasn't incriminating Brian for acting foolishly, but she
couldn't help but feel indignant on his behalf.

"Well," he said,
standing up again, swiping at his hairline with his forearm. "I
have to put these away."

Nora smiled at the
table top.

"Sears said he would
fund it!" Rain yelled from her room.

"What?" Brian
yelled, his head ducked in the fridge.

Rain came out. "He
likes the script. He's writing up a check tomorrow—he's still
thinking about how much he should waste on us."

Brian stood up and hit
his head. "Oh—fuck."

The two girls stared.

He pulled out of the
fridge and rubbed his head. "That's great news. Did you check
minutes four and twenty-seven?"

"Still too choppy,"
Rain said, waving him off. She headed back into her room.

"Choppy," Brian
parroted thoughtfully, and went back to placing groceries in the
fridge.

Nora had sat there that
whole time, resisting the urge to tell him how bad her date had gone
last night, and experienced a strange sense of euphoria keeping it to
herself. After she had snapped out of her strange daydream, she
stood up, smiling. "I'll help you with those."

-

Brian and Rain stood in
the back, giving the audience a once-over. The viewing of their
film, up for a few nominations already for the campus film festival,
was next on the reel, and the audience had already died down to a
hush.

Brian took her hand and
held it tight. Even though Rain wasn't the hand-holding type, he
knew he couldn't do it without her. "I need a smoke."

"You've gone two
weeks without it, suck it up," she said.

He smiled. "It makes
me edgy."

"You need a backbone
anyway. It doesn't hurt to have a little attitude."

"Do you think they'll
like it?"

"It doesn't matter
if they do."

Brian looked at her. "I almost forgot."

She slowly turned to
look at him; she squeezed his hand, and for the first time since they
had met, she gave him a very soft, lady-like smile. "Are you
satisfied with it?"

"Of course not. But
I like it anyway."

Then they both turned
and watched the opening credits. Laughter was already rolling
through the audience, which was a good sign.

Carmichael had almost
protested against the small specks of humor peppered throughout the
film, but Rain had ripped the phone out of Brian's hand and
whispered threats into the receiver. It was a good judgment call on
her part. A script without a little humor, or even some charming
irony, was just as bad as Life without any.

The music was festive,
but still personal and captivating. It was something soulful that
only Chris and Eileen could produce. Brian resisted the temptation
to close his eyes and listen to it. There had been those late
nights, while he was looping through two-, three-minute scenes over
and over again for sound checks and continuity that he had closed his
eyes to listen to the music. They seemed to intuitively understand
scenes even without his direction.

Maybe there was a
certain level of trust involved that made them such an unstoppable
team; it was this kind of trust that left their music unguarded and
relatable, simple, but still water-marked. It was Love music.

He looked over at Rain,
watching the screen with her self-satisfied smirk. He had resisted
the temptation on several occasions, of course, with no prompt from
her. Maybe he was emerging from a thick fog, and the caul that had
been over his eyes was slowly shredding away. His heart was beating
with excitement. A little bit of Carmichael's desires and a little
bit of his own were in the film—two unavoidable taints on the
piece, no doubt, but maybe without it… maybe without the blind and
blatant desire shining through, the truth wouldn't be as clear.

"Alright, here comes
the corny exchange," Rain whispered. "It's so unnatural. I
still wish you would take it out."

"I like it," Brian
said with a carefree smile. "Sometimes you have to let a little of
it in."

-

Carmichael got off the
phone and retreated to the master bedroom, hopping onto the bed. Their new place was small, but it was the best he could manage with
his and Jennifer's income combined.

"What did Brian say
this time?"

"They won best film,
best screen play. Two others, but I couldn't hear what he was
saying. I think he was drunk."

"That's nice,"
Jennifer said, and reached out in front of her, groping the bed.

Carmichael held her
hand and placed her glasses in them.

"Thank you." She
put them on.

He went back to
reading. "No problem." Then, as an afterthought: "Still no
sign of Louisa."

"She'll come back. Brian is a nice boy."

Carmichael said
nothing. He thought again about returning as well. Even though he
had forfeited his scholarship, he still planned on going back, when
Jennifer was back on her feet again. He'd written enough
screenplays, but maybe the message wasn't coming through clearly
enough. And with Nora's insecurity, he was sure she had probably
latched herself onto some other mother fucker.

But that was fine. He
liked to fight.

"What are you
reading?"

"Anna Karenina,"
Carmichael said. He sipped on his water.

"Again?"

"Yes," he said.

"Alright then,"
Jennifer sighed, flipping through her magazine.

-

Nora plopped in the
sand beside Brian, taking off her sunshades. She hugged her knees,
looking out at the sea.

"Boring, isn't it?"
she yelled over the seagulls.

"Of course not," he
smiled.

They sat in silence for
a long time. They had started their day early, unsure of where they
would go. They agreed that wherever they'd be, they'd want to
have a good time. They had blown some of their money on an expensive
Italian restaurant, went shopping together for hats and shoes and
shirts, walked about aimlessly, and finally landed in Santa Barbara
for their last lazy Sunday afternoon before the new Fall semester.

They had sat at a bus
stop and smiled at cars, dogs, and passerbys. Talking had been at a
comfortable minimum, and, once or twice, Brian had smiled at her so
warmly, she forgot where she was.

Nora had gone weeks in
an almost dormant state, growing to really love herself. She had
been thoughtful, thorough, disciplined, and reserved. And even when
Carmichael had forfeited his scholarship, she still took thorough
notes for him, had dragged herself through the Spring semester, no
matter how tedious or banal it got, went to every single class, aced
almost all of her finals. And no matter how stressful the nights
got, where Brian grew despondent and edgy (he had lasted the whole
summer without a single cigarette), she did her best to prod him
awake to stay on top of his deadlines. The men in her life no longer
caused her pain; it was possibly her greatest joy to learn how to (in
Rain's words) "suck it up."

And every time she saw
Brian sitting alone on the porch, she felt real pain for him. He had
been trying so hard, saving up his money, working with trainees,
going to parenting classes, finishing up film after film,
researching, studying, preparing for an internship. He was trying so
hard, but even when she felt real pain for him, she could not feel
angry for him anymore. He himself wasn't angry; he was still full
of joy, stress, excitement, thoughts, things to do. Despite the
moments of sadness, she was sure he, too, was very happy to live for
himself and was learning to really love himself.

It seemed that the
awkwardness of living with strangers without having first learned to
love herself was like being in a room full of funhouse mirrors. She
finally realized, after all this time, that without being able to see
herself as clearly as a picture frame, things were always a little
terrifying and confusing. One couldn't help but close one's
eyes, she reminded herself, yes, even after the fact. Fear
was a constant. But these days and the ones before it and the ones
after it remain dreadfully clear, these days wait as beautifully and
brightly as the sea and sky horizon to be looked at, in all their
boring clarity, their solidness, their vapidity. Then, a house full
of strangers becomes a crystal full of shining faces, each a telling
and deeply personal truth, each refracting a pure and perfect light
as good as the next.

Just a few days ago,
she had wondered to herself how many more strangers she'd meet and
rub hearts with, how many more strangers that would show her more
about herself. The thought itself brought quick, sharp, bright
bursts in her chest, and she had walked that day with an excited
euphoria. Today, she was peaceful, almost resigned to the unknown.

A mother with two young
children ran past, each holding a plastic pale and plastic shovel,
trotting down toward the beach, becoming little wiggling silhouettes
in the distance. Their laughter and the waves and the terrible,
grating sound of seagulls sounded almost like the non-sounding sound
of rushing thoughts. Soon, Nora had nothing in her head but smiles
and the beach.

"I love you, Nora,"
Brian said, staring at the waves. He squinted as the wind blew his
hair back.

She smiled slowly at
him, knowing that he didn't mean it in the way she might have once
wanted him to mean it, and yet, it was still so wonderful for her. She tucked her hair behind her ear and scooted through the sand
closer to him until their knees touched.

"I love you, Brian,"
she said, biting back happy tears. She didn't want to frighten
him; she also didn't want to frighten herself.

It might never mean the
same thing, to anyone. Not films, not music, not photos, not plays,
not books, not words, nor Love.

"It's nice, isn't
it?" Brian mused after he had watched the sea gulls circling
overhead dive into the sea.

"It is," Nora said,
deep down from the bottom of her heart. She leaned her head against
his shoulder, smiling as the sun shone brilliantly and directly into
her eyes. It was dipping low into the horizon now, along with all
the color and sound around her. She was sure that all meanings
converged at one point and became the axis on which all hopes turned.

If this weren't the
case, she was sure that it would be impossible to live with strangers
at all.

End.

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